


Joyeux Noel, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

by nickelsandcoats



Series: Christmas at the Watson-Holmeses [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's finally Christmas day at the Watson-Holmeses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Joyeux Noel, a Hamish Watson-Holmes story

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hamish Watson-Holmes, created by valeria2067 [here](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com/post/11679232191/hamish-a-sherlock-john-ficlet-pairing). For more Hamish stories, go [here](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/)

“Dad?”

“Mmph.” John cracked open one eye and blinked first at his son and then at the clock on the bedside table. 3.45 in the morning. Hal couldn’t possibly want to open presents this early, could he? But a sniffle stopped John’s protest before he could even give it voice. “What is it, Hal?” He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Had a nightmare.” Hamish scrubbed at his eyes with one hand, clutching Boswell to his chest with the other.

“Oh, Hal, I’m sorry,” John said as he leant forward and gathered Hamish up, lifting him onto the bed. Hamish immediately snuggled down between him and Sherlock, still clinging to Boswell with one hand as the other continued to wipe ineffectually at his face. John gently wiped away Hal’s tears with his thumb. “Can you tell me what you dreamed of? I can take it away if you tell me.”

“Can you really?”

John nodded solemnly. “I can. It’s what dads do.”

Hamish bit his lip. While the boy didn’t pick up on it, John heard the slight change in Sherlock’s breathing and knew his husband had woken. He glanced over Hamish’s head and met Sherlock’s eyes, glowing slightly in the light from the fairy-lights Hamish had insisted on hanging in their room.

“I dreamt of Father bleeding on the floor. Do you remember?”

“I do. But he’s better now, Hamish. I know that was really scary for you to see him like that.”

“And then he was laying there bleeding and you came in behind him and you were bleeding too and I tried to help you both and I couldn’t and Father stopped breathing and then you stopped breathing and I yelled for help but no one came and you were both laying there and you weren’t moving and you wouldn’t wake up and you wouldn’t answer me when I called for you and I was so scared and so sad and then I woke up.” Hamish’s words dissolved into sobs that shook his small frame. Instantly, Sherlock’s arms were around him and his husband was pressing kisses into Hamish’s hair, murmuring soft, shapeless sounds as he soothed their child.

John was speechless. He hadn’t thought Hamish had remembered the night Sherlock, covered in blood, had come home and collapsed on the floor ⎯Hamish had been only three. He had no idea his son had any idea how dangerous their jobs could be, even with all the precautions they took now that they had Hamish. But obviously something had slipped their carefully constructed walls because his son had dreamt of them dying and being helpless and alone. The thought of that, combined with Hamish’s harsh sobs and his tears soaking through the t-shirt John was wearing, made tears of his own slip free.

“Oh, Hamish,” John whispered, curling one hand protectively around Hamish’s head, running his fingers through his curls, “Hal, love, I’m so sorry.” He reached out and curled his feet and calves around Sherlock’s, pressing his forehead to his husband’s head, cocooning their son in their arms, surrounding him completely to keep the nightmare at bay.

Once Hamish had calmed a bit, sobs turning to soft hiccups, John whispered, “You know that your father and I will never, ever leave you. Not while there is anything we can do about it. And you know that we will never, ever let anything happen to you. Look at me.”

Hamish met his eyes, still sniffling back a few stray tears.

“I swear to you that you will never be put in a position like that. Never. Do you believe me?”

Hamish nodded.

“Good.” John kissed the top of his head.

Sherlock kissed the back of his head and said gently, “Try to sleep, now, Hamish. Your dad and I will watch over you and make sure you have good dreams. Okay?”

Hamish nodded and fisted one hand in John’s shirt, pressing himself back into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock started humming a low, slow song, the notes reverberating in his chest. Eventually, Hamish’s eyes drooped and then closed as he surrendered to sleep, his fist still clutching John’s shirt. John and Sherlock kept their vigil over their son, free hands linked on Hamish’s side, until the sun rose and Hamish stirred in their arms.

“Good morning,” John said with a smile. “Better dreams?”

Hamish nodded. “Did Santa come?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to remind Hamish that he knew very well there was no such thing as Santa, but a look from John made him change tactics. “Why don’t you go and see?” he asked as he sat up and stretched.

Hamish clambered over John, Boswell under his arm, and bolted into the kitchen. His excited shout of “He did! Wait!” John and Sherlock froze in their bedroom doorway. “I forgot to put your presents under the tree! Wait in your room for a minute!”

John and Sherlock smiled at each other and sat back on the bed, waiting patiently for the clatter of small feet to come barreling back down the stairs. “Okay!” Hamish called a few minutes later.

They walked out hand-in-hand to the sitting room, where Hamish was sat on the floor, bouncing impatiently. Sherlock sat down on the sofa, smiling indulgently at his son, but John stopped, grinned a bit evilly, and said, “Tea first, I think. Then presents.”

“Daaad!”

“It’ll be just a tic.” John stretched out his tea-making ritual as long as he could before he finally returned to the sitting room, a tray full of tea and cocoa in his hands. “Here,” he said, handing the cocoa to Hamish. “Drink some of this and then you can open your presents.”

Hamish gulped down a few swallows of his cocoa and then started passing out presents. He plopped two packages down on John’s lap, and dragged one over to Sherlock. He dug around a bit and then pulled out a smaller package, which he dropped onto Sherlock’s lap.

John smiled down at Hamish and said, “Go ahead. Your father and I have other gifts in there⎯just hand them out when you get to them.”

Hamish looked at his parents. “Don’t you want to open yours?”

Sherlock grinned down at him. “We will, but after you’ve opened yours. You’re so excited, I’m surprised you’ve not bounced off the ceiling.”

Hamish stuck his tongue out at his father and settled into tearing off the paper from his gifts. After he’d unwrapped a few books, each of which he paged through as he opened them, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, a new paint set, a pair of tickets to see the symphony in a few weeks’ time, and some beakers and test tubes of his very own (John had looked worried at those⎯Sherlock had snuck them in when John had gone up to check on Hamish the night before), he found himself sitting in front of three presents that were buried deep under the tree.

“Here’s one for you, Dad, from Father,” he said as he handed John a small, heavy box. “And here’s yours from Dad,” he finished as he handed Sherlock a larger, heavier box. He sat back down and pulled the last box out and peered at the label. “And this one’s for me.”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other knowingly. Sherlock said softly, “Go ahead and open it.”

Hamish picked up on the hushed, expectant mood that had settled over his parents and carefully slid one finger under the crease in the paper, pulling it up to reveal a plain brown box. He lifted the flaps on the box and peered down into it, and then he froze, mouth dropping open in shock.

After a moment, Sherlock said gently, “It’s all right, Hamish. It’s yours.”

Hamish swallowed and reached down into the box, lifting out a small violin case. He set the case down on the floor and stroked it reverently before he undid the clasps and opened it. He lifted the tiny violin out and set it on his shoulder, tucking it carefully under his chin, placing his fingers on the strings like he had seen Father do hundreds of times. He left the bow in the case and instead plucked at a string, smiling as a note, high and pure, rang out. He looked at his parents, both of whose eyes were suspiciously shiny, and grinned ear to ear. “Thank you,” he said, carefully putting the violin back into its case before launching himself at his parents, kissing their cheeks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John said, kissing his cheek.

Hamish smacked another kiss on Sherlock’s cheek before clambering back down to sit in front of them. Sherlock cleared his throat and said, “I’ll give you lessons to get you started, and if you want another tutor, I’ll arrange for that, too.”

“I want you to teach me,” Hamish said decisively.

Sherlock smiled. “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Open yours!” Hamish cried. “But do mine last.”

John and Sherlock exchanged a bemused look. “Go ahead,” Sherlock said.

John ripped off the paper on Sherlock’s gift and gasped when he opened the box and revealed a pocket watch. He turned it over and smiled a bit at the inscription. Hamish asked what it said, but John simply shook his head and said, “When you’re older, love.” John leaned over and kissed Sherlock deeply, the watch still in his hand. “Thank you,” he murmured against his husband’s lips.

“You’re very welcome.”

John sat back and said, “Open the smaller one first.”

Sherlock did, and grinned at the mug he had so admired when they gave it to Molly. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

“No experiments in that one?”

“No, John, I won’t conduct experiments in this one.”

“Good. Hamish picked it out for Molly, and we decided you needed to have one, too.”

Sherlock smiled his thanks down to Hamish and then turned his attention to the larger package. He opened it and frowned a bit in puzzlement before his face cleared as he realised what he was looking at. It was an album of photos, taken from John’s mobile, the Yard’s cameras, John’s own camera, that stretched back from when they first met to the present. John leaned down and scooped Hamish up, settling him on his lap as Sherlock paged through the album. Tucked in among the photos were other little news clippings, excerpts from John’s blog, and small artifacts. The second half of the book was pictures of Hamish, from his birth until their skating outing yesterday. They all looked glowing, smiling in every picture. Sherlock hardly recognised himself⎯he looked transcendently happy in every photo.

“It’s really for the both of us,” John said quietly. “We never gathered up all of our pictures, and well, I thought it was time. And whenever you think you don’t make us happy, or you think you’re not good enough for me, for Hamish, I want you to be able to look at the proof of how much you are loved by us.”

John cleared his throat and glanced down at Hamish, smiling a bit. “Sorry. Got a bit carried away, there.”

“John, I⎯I honestly do not know what to say. This is perfect. I just⎯” He shook his head ruefully, lost for words, and kissed his husband, this man who had given him everything he had wanted and things he never knew he needed or wanted. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome.” John said, the look in his eyes saying that he understood all of what Sherlock was thanking him for.

Hamish rolled his eyes and tugged on John’s pyjamas leg. “Open yours! The big one first.”

Once he’d pulled off the wrapping, Hamish gave a little wriggle of anticipation as John lifted the lid and revealed the jumper Sherlock and Hamish had bought a few weeks ago.

“Thank you, Hamish,” John said warmly as he removed the jumper, stroking one hand over the soft weave.

“I wanted you to have something as cuddly as you are.”

John grinned at him. “What, am I not cuddly the rest of the time?”

“No! You’re always cuddly. But you need something to cuddle you all the time, even when Father and I can’t.”

John blinked at his son, trying hard not to let the tears that gathered in his eyes fall.

“Hal, that’s so thoughtful,” John murmured.

Hal seemed to ignore the emotion swirling in his dad’s eyes as he bounced up and said, “Now you both need to open your little ones. And you haveta open them at the same time.”

John and Sherlock opened the smaller, squashy packages and John grinned as a teddy bear, wearing a matching jumper, dropped into his lap. Sherlock’s was exactly the same, even down the jumper, he noticed, except John’s bear was a dark brown and Sherlock’s was a pale tan.

“Whenever you need a cuddle, you can give your bears a hug. I made sure they were small enough to fit in your coat pockets so that you take them with you wherever you go. See, Dad’s bear looks like Father, and Father’s bear looks like Dad. And they have the same jumper because it’s supposed to be like Dad’s new jumper and make you think of getting a cuddle from me and Dad or Father whenever you see it.”

Both men made no effort to hide the tears that fell now. Hamish’s eyes welled up too, as he wailed, “You’re crying! I’m sorry you don’t like them!”

“Oh, Hamish,” Sherlock said as he slid down to the floor and gathered him up. John was right next to him, wrapping his arms tightly around his son and his husband. “They’re perfect, and we love them. We’re just so glad you gave them to us; it’s very thoughtful, and that’s why we’re crying a bit.”

Hamish looked mollified as he snuggled in close. “I thought that Boswell was a good cuddler and so you both needed your own Boswells. But you can name them whatever you want.”

John giggled a bit. “We’ll come up with good names, I promise.”

Sherlock gently rubbed one finger along his bear’s jumper. “How did you do this? I know I didn’t take you out to buy these.”

“Mrs. Hudson helped. She and I went out and bought the bears and the material for the jumpers and she taught me how to sew the jumpers.”

“We’ll have to thank her later,” John remarked as he nudged Sherlock. “You’ve still got another present to open, love.”

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock pulled the large box over to him, adjusting Hamish so that he was sitting on one thigh, and ripped off the paper to reveal a trunk. He flipped open the latch and gasped once the lid was open.

“Hamish…” Sherlock whispered as he took in what, exactly, was in the trunk. Neatly (well, as neatly as a six-year-old could write) labeled bags and tubes contained little samples of dirt, leaves, bugs, and other items. Each of the bags and tubes were numbered, and there was a smaller box and a large book stacked neatly in a little compartment.

“Open the book first,” Hamish instructed.

Sherlock carefully extracted the book and set it on his lap, opening it to reveal the title page:

  
_A Consulting Detective’s Helper and How They Solved Cases Together  
By Hamish Malcolm Watson-Holmes_   


“It’s a book that explains how I helped you solve your cases you told me about,” Hamish said as Sherlock turned the page to see the litmus test strips he had shown Hamish how to use when he was teaching him how to test the acidity of saliva. It had been the first case he allowed Hamish to help him with, and that had been because the boy had pestered him to let him play with the pretty colored strips until Sherlock relented and taught him about acidity. The strips they used were carefully pasted into the book, with an account of the case (from Hamish’s perspective) written next to it.

“Looks like I have some competition,” John said with a laugh as Sherlock continued to read through his book.

“I kept everything. The stuff I could glue into the book is in there, the photos are in the box, and the rest of it’s in the tubes and bags. I wanted you to remember all the cases we solved together, just like Daddy does with his blog. And if you or Uncle Greg need more evidence, then it’s all right there. Besides, I wanna be like you and Daddy when I grow up, so I need practice, and I can practice with both of you and put more in your book.”

“Hamish, this is extraordinary. I have no words to say thank you enough. Truly, I’m astonished.” He pressed a kiss to Hamish’s unruly curls and held him tightly for a long moment, thanking for the millionth time whatever deity had seen him fit to have this wonderful, astonishing creature in his life.

A loud knock on the door shattered their reverie. Hamish squirmed out of their pile on the floor, yelling, “Uncle Mycroft! Uncle Greg!”

Sherlock and John picked themselves up off the floor, surreptitiously wiping at their eyes as they greeted the other two men.

“I like your new coat, Uncle Greg,” Hamish said, pulling on the hem of said new coat.

“Thank you. Uncle Mycroft bought it for me.”

“Hamish, why don’t you show your uncles your gifts while your father and I get some brunch ready?”

“Okay!” Hamish caught his uncles’ hands and dragged them to the sofa, waiting impatiently as they shrugged off their coats before sitting down.

  
After brunch, Hamish disappeared for a moment and returned in triumph, dragging a small bag behind him. Donning the Santa hat once more, Hamish produced his uncles’ gifts with a flourish after the plates had been cleared away. Greg nearly choked on his tea when Mycroft opened the umbrella and vowed to replace his usual dour black ones with his new pink one right away. Hamish had beamed at him.

“You’ll have to get a sword put in it,” Hamish said sadly, “because Dad wouldn’t let me buy you one with one already in.”

Mycroft gave him a wink and a nod.

Greg had oohed and ahhed over his very nice new gloves and scarf, that, coincidentally, matched his new coat perfectly. “Did you plan this?” he asked suspiciously.

Hamish giggled a bit and the other three men only smiled.

Mycroft and Greg gave Hamish a beautiful wooden music stand, several beginning violin books, and a separate leather outer carrying case for his violin. Hamish squealed with joy and carefully wrapped the hard plastic case in the leather one. He sat down and started reading one of the violin books as Mycroft handed Sherlock an envelope.

“Our gift,” Mycroft said, “but open it later.” John frowned a bit at him, but Sherlock merely nodded and tucked the envelope under his thigh.

Sherlock pulled out an envelope of his own and with a smirk, handed it to his brother, who opened it cautiously. One never knew when Sherlock had put something…unpleasant in an envelope. He pulled out the card, and after opening it, nearly dropped it. Greg’s jaw dropped when he saw the name on the tickets his husband was holding.

“How did you get these?” Mycroft gasped. “Even I couldn’t get a pair of these⎯they were already sold out!”

John grinned and Sherlock smirked again.

“I have my own connexions, Mycroft.”

“Have a good time, both of you.” John said. “We also booked you a table at Bocca di Lupa, and your meal is on the house.”

“This is too much,” Greg protested, but Sherlock waved him off.

“The chef at Bocca owes me a favour, and the tickets were not as much as you think. Besides, it’s Christmas.”

  
Eventually, Hamish had started yawning and, after depositing kisses all around, went upstairs to read for a while. The men sipped at their tea, drowsing a bit in the warmth. Greg stirred a bit after a while and said, “Open that envelope, Sherlock, before Hamish comes back down.”

Sherlock took up his knife and ripped open the seam, depositing a thick folded piece of paper in his hand. It was plane tickets and a reservation at a hotel in Paris, dated for next month. They would have five whole days. John’s mouth worked a few times before he managed to quip, “And you accuse us of spending too much.”

Greg smiled. “You two need a break.”

“Hamish⎯” John started, but Mycroft cut him off smoothly.

“Will stay with us for the duration. We’ve both already taken off work.”

“He’ll like that,” Sherlock said as he smiled one of his rare warm smiles at his brother and brother-in-law. “Thank you.”

There was an awkward throat clearing and hemming and hawing before finally Greg stood and clapped Sherlock and John on the shoulder before heading into the kitchen for more tea. Hamish came clattering down the stairs then, and leapt up onto the sofa next to Mycroft.

“I forgot to show you what I got Dad and Father!” He pulled the jumper, bears, and finally the trunk over and started going through all of it with his uncles. Mycroft snuck a glance at his brother’s expression during Hamish’s explanation and smiled at the sheer wonder and joy writ across his brother’s face. He pulled his nephew in a bit closer, kissing his cheek as Hamish pointed out the x-ray of a broken femur that had led Sherlock to conclude the gardener was innocent.

  
Finally, hours later, after Mrs. Hudson had joined them for dinner, Mycroft and Greg left for the evening, Mycroft swinging his new pink umbrella as he led Greg down the steps and into their waiting car. John bent down and picked Hamish up, settling him on one hip as they waved goodbye.

The three of them wandered upstairs, Hamish yawning as they went. The boy pulled on his pyjamas and clambered into bed as soon as John put him down.

“Did you have a nice Christmas?” John asked as he tugged the blankets around his son.

“Mmmhmm. The best.”

“Good. That’s all we wanted.”

“Did you have a good Christmas, Dad?”

“I did. The very best ever. I bet your father did, too.”

“He did,” Sherlock replied. He walked in and sat next to John, planting a kiss on John’s cheek, then on Hamish’s. “And you should get some sleep⎯we have some cases to work on tomorrow, and a violin lesson if you want.”

Hamish grinned sleepily. He hugged Boswell tightly and closed his eyes. John ran a hand over his curls and brushed a feather-light kiss across Hamish’s forehead. “Good night,” he whispered as he stood. Sherlock repeated his gesture, adding his own soft, “Sleep well,” as he too stood.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered into his husband’s ear.

“And I you,” John replied. “Take me to bed?”

“Always.”

  
When Hamish came in the next morning to kiss his parents good morning, he saw that their bears’s paws were touching as they laid on Dad’s pillow. He grinned and climbed carefully onto the bed and snuggled down between his parents, Boswells paw resting on top of his parents’ bears.


End file.
